The Tutor's Daughter

Chapter 4





The next morning, Emma again found her father’s room empty and went downstairs alone. When she neared the steward’s office, she heard low male voices and assumed Mr. Davies and her father were breakfasting together. But when she entered, she found Mr. Davies seated at his desk, in conversation with a man she had not seen before—a man still wearing his outdoor coat and cap.

Not very polite of him, Emma thought.

From beneath the man’s tweed cap, red hair in need of a comb hung over his collar. Some tradesman or estate worker Emma guessed, though his well-made suit of clothes seemed incongruous with his flat cap and unkempt hair.

The man looked at her, his gaze running from her head to bosom and back again. Emma was grateful to have a modest fichu tucked into her neckline—not that she had much to cover up.

Mr. Davies rose from behind his desk. “Good morning, miss.”

“Good morning.”

She waited, but Davies did not introduce the man.

She faltered, “Should I . . . come back another time? I am really not very hungry.”

“No, miss.” Davies looked at the man pointedly. “This fellow was just leaving.”

“Pray, don’t leave on my account.” The man smiled archly. “Miss, thee say?”

Again Mr. Davies offered no introduction, so Emma made do with an awkward nod.

The man’s smile stretched across his thin face. “I’d heard new folks come to Ebb-ton. But not that one be so well favored.”

Cheeks burning, Emma turned away. Aware of his gaze following her, she stepped to the sideboard and self-consciously selected a small breakfast. How would she eat half of it if the man kept watching her?

But she had no sooner set her plate on the table than the man rose.

“Until the first, then, Davies. I shan’t wait a day longer.”

Davies sighed heavily. “I shall do what I can.”

With a grin in her direction, the red-haired man tugged his cap brim and took his leave.

Davies remained only long enough to ask her if she had everything she needed before excusing himself as well.

Emma ate her breakfast alone.

When she exited the steward’s office a short time later, she was surprised to find her father buttoning his greatcoat and taking up his walking stick from the stand near the back door. She hoped he was not neglecting his duties already.

“Good morning, Papa.”

“Ah, Emma. Good morning.”

“Where are you off to?” She steeled herself to be called upon to teach the morning lesson in his stead. She hated to think what Lady Weston would say when she heard.

“I’m off for a morning stroll. Rowan and Julian are in the library with the vicar.”

“Do you mind?” she asked gently.

“Not at all,” he said. “I imagine the vicar’s Latin and certainly his Greek are superior to mine.”

Emma was surprised her father would acknowledge that.

“At all events,” he continued, “I plan to use my free time to become more acquainted with the countryside. Would you like to accompany me?”

“No thank you, Papa.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing, my dear. The property stretches out to sheer cliffs which drop straight down to the Atlantic—crashing waves, bracing ocean breezes. Nothing like it in Longstaple, I can tell you. There’s something refreshing about it, Emma. You simply must see it for yourself.”

Already her father’s cheeks were bright—either from his walk the day before or in anticipation of that morning’s pleasure. Whatever the case, he looked more alert and alive than she’d seen him in months.

“I shall,” she assured him. “But not today. I made good progress in organizing the schoolroom yesterday, and I shall take advantage of its not being in use this morning to continue.” Guilt niggled her. Had she not come here to help her father? She would have to make a point to spend more time with him in future.

Bidding him be careful near the cliffs, Emma watched her father leave. Then she turned and walked up the passage and across the hall. Seeing no one about, she gingerly approached the library door, partially ajar.

She peeked inside. There at the library table sat Rowan and Julian, hunched over paper and quills, translating something, she imagined. Pacing before them was a slightly portly man with auburn hair that almost, but not quite, covered his somewhat prominent ears. He was dressed in a black coat and trousers with a cleric’s white, tabbed collar.

He stopped pacing, crossed his arms, and regarded his pupils. In that position, she got a better look at his face. His nose was well proportioned, his mouth wide, its upper lip a well-defined archer’s bow. A pleasing face, Emma thought, though perhaps not quite as handsome as Lizzie had led her to believe.

Apparently bored or eager for the boys to finish, he wadded up a scrap of paper and tossed it at Rowan.

Emma frowned at this, as did Rowan, who glanced up in surprise.

Mr. McShane said, “Just wanted to make sure you were awake, Rowan.”

“I am. But this is dashed difficult.”

“Of course it is,” he said, tone wry. “Most worthwhile things are.”

Rowan’s face puckered, but he begrudgingly bent back over his work.

“And you, Julian?” the vicar asked, pausing beside his second pupil.

Julian had not reacted during the exchange with his brother, nor even glanced up.

Still eliciting no response, Mr. McShane poked him in the arm with his index finger. It was a playful gesture, not hard or cruel, but Julian’s head snapped up, his eyes sparking with fury. Gone was the charming boy Emma had seen upon first meeting. In his place sat a furious young man ready to strike.

“Poke me again and you shall draw back a stump.”

Emma stifled a gasp—and the urge to stalk inside and take the situation in hand.

In a flash Rowan leapt to his feet and placed himself between his brother and the stunned vicar. Rowan was nearly as tall as the clergyman. He stood, tense and alert, poised to . . . what? Defend his brother, or threaten his provoker?

He said quietly, “I would advise you not to do that again, Mr. McShane.”

The vicar’s hand went to his chest in a regretful gesture. He said earnestly, “Mea maxima culpa. I beg your pardon. I had no intention of harming or offending either of you. I apologize.”

Rowan remained where he was a moment longer, then turned, and both men faced Julian. For a moment Julian’s hard glare didn’t waver. Emma tensed, fearing a fight was about to break out.

But then Julian leaned back against his chair, slowly grinning as though it had all been a joke. “Te absolvo,” he said. “This time.”

Emma quietly turned away and started up the many stairs toward the schoolroom. One part of her was oddly relieved that the vicar had some difficulty with the boys, as her father had. But another part of her was unsettled by such a lack of respect demonstrated to a teacher, and a clergyman in the bargain.

Reaching the schoolroom, she returned her attention to the review and cataloging of the books on the schoolroom shelves. One dusty volume promised a history of the village of Ebford. Kneeling before the bookcase, she skimmed through the volume, noting a list of prominent families who’d settled the parish—the Heales, Trewins, Teagues, and Morgans. Heale . . . Was that not the name Mr. Davies had mentioned—Lady Weston’s maiden name? She thought so, but could not recall with certainty.



That afternoon Lizzie offered to give Emma a thorough tour of Ebbington Manor, showing her not only a general sweep of the public rooms as Mrs. Prowse had done, but promising to include more interesting areas of the house as well. Emma was surprised Mrs. Prowse had not offered such a tour herself. But as she thought about it, Emma realized she had barely laid eyes on the housekeeper since she’d shown them to their rooms the night they arrived.

Lizzie led her first through the ground level, pointing out rooms opening onto the hall. “You’ve seen most of this already. The drawing room, dining room, breakfast room, library. Have you seen the music room yet?”

“No.”

Lizzie opened the door and gestured across the room. Emma peered inside, noting the tapestries and portraits on the walls, a pianoforte front and center, and a harp off to one side.

“Who plays?” she asked.

“The harp? Nobody, I don’t think.”

“And the pianoforte?”

“Julian and Rowan have both had lessons. But Julian is supposedly the better player.”

Emma looked at her. “You don’t agree?”

Lizzie shrugged. “I have no ear for music, apparently.” She shut the door before Emma got a good look. “More interesting rooms ahead.”

She led Emma upstairs to the first floor. “This is Lady Weston’s apartment.” She opened a door. “This is her dressing room, and her bedchamber is through there.” Lizzie indicated the adjoining room, where Emma glimpsed a frilly, canopied bed.

Lizzie returned eager eyes to the dressing table. “Have you ever seen the like? There are enough lotions and potions to smooth the wrinkles from an elephant. Not that I’ve ever seen an elephant. But I have read a few books in my life.”

Emma’s gaze swept the dressing table with its three-paneled looking glass, swathed in lace and covered with cosmetics, hairbrushes and powder brushes with silver handles, flowers in a crystal vase, and another spray on the dressing chest. The room was very feminine, and very . . . frothy.

“Ought we to be in here?” Emma whispered.

“Why not? Don’t you want to see what all her money buys?”

“Her money?”

Lizzie wagged her brows and grinned mischievously but made no answer. “Follow me.” She turned and led Emma back into the corridor. But they had barely closed Lady Weston’s door and taken three steps when that very personage appeared from around the corner and paused directly in their path.

“Lizzie. Miss Smallwood. What are you two doing, pray?” One penciled eyebrow rose high.

“I am only giving Miss Smallwood a tour of the place,” Lizzie replied. “Thought someone should.”

Lady Weston glanced from the girl’s face to the closed door behind her. “Very good of you, I’m sure.”

She swept past them, and the girls continued on their way. But Lady Weston’s voice halted them once more. “Lizzie?”

Lizzie and Emma turned back.

Violet Weston’s steely eyes looked from one young woman to the other. “Take care in wandering about the manor. Do remember the north wing is . . . better left out of your tour. It isn’t safe or . . . well lit.”

Lizzie’s eyes glinted speculatively. “Is that so, my lady? I did not realize.”

“Yes. It is so, Lizzie. Or I would not have said it.”

“Then I thank you for your . . . concern.”

Lady Weston looked at her pointedly. “Be careful, Lizzie.”

“I always am.”

Once Lady Weston had stepped into her room and closed the door, Emma whispered, “What was that about?”

“I’m not certain. But that reminds me—I want to show you something.”

“But . . . Lizzie!”

Emma had to hurry to catch up with the younger girl as she trotted up the stairs to the next floor—the floor where Emma and her father had their rooms, as well as Julian and Rowan. At the top of the stairs, instead of going left or right, Lizzie stepped forward into a small alcove. There, lit by sunshine filtered through a stained-glass window, hung a portrait.

“I wonder if this is what she didn’t want you to see. . . .”

Emma stepped closer, looking up at the oil painting in gilded frame. Autumnal-colored light shone on it from the stained-glass window, turning the subject’s complexion golden. It was a skillfully painted portrait of a beautiful woman in her early twenties, with thick dark hair, thin, well-carved features, and Phillip Weston’s blue eyes.

“It’s the first Lady Weston,” Lizzie breathed, almost reverently, Emma thought. “Phillip’s mother. And Henry’s.”

“Yes, I would have guessed as much,” Emma said. “I see something of both of them in her face—though, granted, I haven’t seen either of them in years.”

“You’re perfectly right,” Lizzie agreed. “Each of them inherited some of her features.”

Emma nodded, captured by the image. “Why is it kept up here when most of the family have their rooms downstairs?”

Lizzie sent her a sardonic look. “Why do you think?”

Emma thought it wiser not to comment.

Lizzie continued, “I think she’s far more beautiful than the second Lady Weston. But never tell her I said so. I should deny it to the death.”

“I hardly think it would come to that.”

“Don’t be so sure. Now. Ready for the best part of the tour?”

Emma hoped it didn’t include the off-limits north wing. “What is it?”

Lizzie wagged her eyebrows once more. “Phillip’s and Henry’s bedchambers.” She tucked her hand in the crook of Emma’s arm and led her back downstairs. “You’ve never been in a gentleman’s bedchamber, I’d guess.” She said it condescendingly, almost suggestively.

Emma was tempted to correct her, to tell Lizzie she had been in dozens. Of course the gentlemen had all been adolescents at the time. . . . But recalling Lizzie’s confession that she didn’t keep secrets, she decided not to say anything that might be repeated and misconstrued.

There was nothing remarkable about Phillip’s bedchamber, yet Lizzie lingered. In Phillip’s lengthy absence, the room had been kept tidy by dutiful housemaids, and the shutters left drawn against the damaging rays of the sun.

In Henry’s room, books lay in piles on the writing desk and side table. Stacks of papers, spent quills, and inkpots littered every surface of the room. Emma wondered how the housemaids managed to dust in there.

Following her look of distaste, Lizzie said, “This is nothing. You ought to see his study.”

Emma asked, “And what would Phillip or Henry say to finding you in their bedchambers?” Not to mention me, Emma added to herself.

Lizzie shrugged. “I don’t think they’d care. Sometimes I think they look on me as an annoying little sister. Or a house-trained pug.”

“And are they like brothers to you?” Emma asked.

Again that ill-bred shrug. “Perhaps. But I confess I flirt with all four of them shamelessly.”

Emma tucked her chin in surprise. “Do you?”

“Why not? I wouldn’t mind marrying one of them. Then the other three can be my brothers all they like.”

“Any one in particular?” Emma asked dryly.

“I’m not particular, no. Though one professes to be in love with me.”

“Good heavens,” Emma breathed.

Lizzie glanced at her, waved a dismissive hand, and then amended, “But who can trust anything a man says?”

I can, Emma thought. She trusted her father’s word, if not his capabilities. And she had trusted Phillip. She hoped she still could do so. Oh, if only it weren’t so long until the term end.

Lizzie looked at her, then burst into giggles. “I am only teasing you, Miss Smallwood. You needn’t look so scandalized.” She slapped her thigh through her muslin gown. “If only you could see your face. The very image of a pursed-lip puritan!” She hooted in laughter, while Emma found it not at all amusing. But her censorious look only sent Lizzie into new heights of humor.

Emma wondered if she could trust anything Lizzie Henshaw said. She turned to leave.

“Oh, come, Miss Smallwood. Pray, don’t be offended.” Lizzie walked after her. “I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed myself more. I’ve never had a female friend, so I am no doubt breaking all sorts of rules. I shall behave now.” She placed a hand over her heart. “I promise. No more shocking talk. What say you to a game of battledore and shuttlecock instead? I long for a bit of exercise. Or we might walk into the village and look in the shop windows.”

“No, thank you, Lizzie. I had better return to the schoolroom.”

Lizzie sighed. “Oh, you’re no fun.”

A thought struck Emma, and she turned back. “You have not shown me your room, Lizzie. That is one room I should actually like to see.”

The girl’s lower lip protruded and the sparkle faded from her eyes. “No you shouldn’t. Nothing to see there.” She shrugged. “But it’s on the way to the schoolroom, so I can show you, if you like. Be prepared to be thoroughly unimpressed.”

On the third level, a pair of oddly placed steps linked the floors of one addition with the next. Midway along the passage, Lizzie opened a door. The room was clean and sunny but fairly Spartan, with a plain single bed that had neither canopy nor bed curtains. The room held a simple washstand much like Emma’s, though Lizzie also had a lady’s dressing table, whereas Emma did not. And Lizzie had two large wardrobe cupboards bursting with gowns of every description.

“My goodness, Lizzie . . .” Emma breathed, taking in the colorful sight.

“Lady Weston likes me to dress well. Very concerned about appearances, Lady Weston is.”

“So I see.”

After that, the girls parted company. Emma spent the remainder of the day with her father in the schoolroom and later ate dinner with him and Mr. Davies.

That night before going to sleep, Emma added to the lists she kept in her journal.

Lizzie Henshaw: charming, amusing, nosy, fickle, hiding something.

Lady Violet Weston: Proud, disapproving, cold, elegant, hiding something.

Sometime after Emma had set aside her journal, blown out her candle, and fallen asleep, she awoke with a start. What had she heard this time? Not a howl. A hinge squeak? The click of a door latch? For a moment she lay there, unmoving, ears alert to any sound, eyes searching the darkness. Her room was black, save for the low glow of embers in the fireplace. The furnishings loomed as uncertain shapes in the shadows. Was that a figure near the wall or merely her wardrobe? Her heart rate accelerated.

She sat up and whispered, “Who’s there?” She felt foolish even as she uttered the question.

Silence.

There was no one there, she told herself. And if there had been, it had only been a servant, come to check the fire, perhaps. She would not have expected such service while it was still night. But who else would come into her room?

Emma forced herself to lie back down, pulled the blankets up to her chin, and squeezed her eyes shut.

That was when she smelled it. She sniffed again. Shaving soap? Men’s cologne? Good heavens, that was strange. She had not smelled it before.

She lay there, forcing herself to breathe deeply, to keep her eyes closed, to think of the book she was currently reading, and eventually managed to fall back asleep.

Emma woke again to find weak dawn light filtering through her windowpanes. The room was still, the fire had gone out. It must be early, for Morva had not yet made it to her room to lay another one. No doubt she and her father were low on the list, after all the family bedchambers had been seen to first. Emma was certainly glad it was spring and not winter.

Remembering her fright of the night before, Emma surveyed her room and found it apparently undisturbed. Of course, everything was as it should be. What had she been thinking last night?

Needing to use the chamber pot, Emma forced herself from the warm cocoon of her bedclothes, relieved herself, then stepped to the corner washstand to wash her hands and face.

As she turned back toward her bed, her bare foot landed on something sharp and hard.

“Oww . . .” she grumbled, and bent to retrieve the offending object.

In the dim light, the small article appeared a dull grey. She picked it up and carried it nearer the window to identify it. She blinked in surprise. A miniature toy soldier. Instantly, she was transported back to days of old at the Smallwood Academy when pupils were forever leaving small wooden balls, jackstones, and soldiers with pointy swords for her to step on.

Henry Weston, however, had been very particular about his collection of military figures, which he used to reenact historic or recent battles with the French.

A good thing he was away on family business at present, or she might have suspected Henry Weston himself had been in her room. She chuckled at the notion. It was far more likely that this soldier had lain hidden under the bed or carpets, long forgotten, only to be swept out in the hurried preparation for the unexpected Smallwoods. Yes, far more likely.

After Morva came in and helped her dress, Emma made her way downstairs for breakfast. She glimpsed Lizzie standing in the hall at one of the front windows.

“Good morning,” Emma greeted.

Lizzie glanced over, but her gaze quickly returned to the window. “Yes, it is.”

“You’re up early.” Curious, Emma walked to Lizzie’s side and looked out the window to see what had captured her attention.

Past the garden wall, across the grassy expanse beyond, came a man riding a muscled black horse, its mane and tale flying on the wind as it galloped over the turf and leapt the garden gate with apparent ease. The rider sat the horse well, erect and confident, high boots in the stirrups, buff breeches snug to the horse’s sides, riding coat sailing behind him, beaver hat brim shading his face.

As horse and rider trotted toward the stables, Emma recognized the man as Henry Weston. Her stomach clenched. Her palms became instantly damp.

“He’s a bruising rider. . . .” Lizzie breathed, all admiration.

Emma frowned. “I had not heard he was expected this morning.”

“He arrived late last night.”

Emma stared at Lizzie, aghast. “Last night?”

Lizzie glanced over, clearly surprised at Emma’s sharp tone. “Yes. It was after ten. You had already gone to bed.”

Emma felt her jaw slacken. Surely not. It must be mere coincidence.

Lizzie asked, “Did you hear it?”

“Hear what?” Emma thought of the unidentified sound that had woken her.

“The row. Between Henry and his father. Lady Weston too.”

“No.” Emma would not ask what the argument had been about; it was none of her affair. Nor Lizzie’s likely.

Instead she asked, “Does he know I . . . that is, that my father and I are here?” Emma hoped that was not what they had argued about.

“I overheard Lady W. tell him last night.” Lizzie snickered and then grinned at Emma. “Warned him, more like.”

Offense and mortification shimmered up Emma’s spine. Warned him indeed.

Intending to ask the boys about the toy soldier, Emma took it upstairs with her after breakfast. She placed it on the schoolroom desk and resumed her cataloging. She found herself reading too much and organizing too little but reminded herself there was no hurry. Kneeling before the schoolroom shelves, she spied a thin volume that had become wedged in the back of the lowest shelf. Since she was alone, she leaned forward to reach the book, her bum projecting in a most unladylike manner, to carefully extricate it without damage.

A dry chuckle disturbed her concentration.

“Well, well. Miss Smallwood. And just as I remember her.”

Prickles of embarrassment and dread rippled through her. She recognized that voice. After so many years, she still did.

She flew to her feet, caught her slipper heel in her skirt hems, and nearly went sprawling as she spun to face him. In one hand she held the rescued book and raised it over her skittering heart. The other hand she lifted to her hair, fearing it was in as much disarray as her nerves.

Henry Weston stood there, leaning one shoulder against the doorjamb, his catlike eyes roving her burning cheeks, flicking to her hair, her gown, the book pressed to her chest like a shield, before returning to her face.

She swallowed convulsively and grasped for composure, reminding herself he was no longer a youth about to toss a mouse under her bedclothes. The thick dark hair framing his face was better groomed than she recalled, his features carved even more sharply than she remembered. Was that a smirk on his face? She coolly lifted her chin. “Mr. Weston.”

He shook his head. “You have not changed one iota. Still the bluestocking with her nose in a book. Hidden away indoors on such a beautiful day.”

Something about his smirk and the glint of challenge in his hooded eyes sent logic flying. And suddenly Emma was quite certain Henry Weston had, upon learning she was in residence last night, lost no time in returning to his old tricks.

She leveled him with an icy glare. “I am surprised you are not too tired to go gallivanting about today, riding and jumping and sneaking up on people.”

One dark brow rose. “Tired? Why should I be tired?”

“You were up late last night.”

Both brows lifted.

She added, “Up to no good.”

His eyes narrowed. “What, pray, does that mean?”

“You know very well.”

“If you are talking about my . . . disagreement with my father, that is none of your business.”

“That is not what I am referring to, as well you know. And it is my business.”

She set aside the book, snatched the tin soldier from the desk, and held it before him, pinched between thumb and index finger. “I found this in my room this morning. Did you drop it or leave it behind intentionally, like a calling card?”

He frowned at the figure, then reached out and took it from her—careful, she noticed, to avoid brushing her fingers.

She asked, “A bit old, are you not? To still be playing with toys?”

He said without expression, as if by rote, “It is not a toy. It is a miniature military figure.”

How many times she had heard him say the same as a younger man.

He looked at her, eyes still narrowed. “You found this in your room?”

“Yes. As you no doubt intended.”

He pulled a face. “You think I was in your room? That is an inconceivably ludicrous, not to mention scandalous, accusation.”

Anger flared, but Emma kept her voice even by supreme effort. “I would have hoped it inconceivable, though you were certainly not above clandestine calls to my room at Longstaple.”

He looked quickly over his shoulder, then stepped nearer. “You might wish to be careful when referring to our days at your father’s academy, Miss Smallwood.” He lowered his voice. “Have you any idea how your statement might be misconstrued by anyone who happened to overhear it?”

Emma felt her neck and cheeks heat as she replayed the words in her mind. But then she lifted her chin once more. She had done nothing wrong. “My lack of judgment in speaking of it is nothing to yours in doing it in the first place.”

He chewed his lip as though he had not heard her. “Which room have they put you in?”

“As if you don’t know.”

His hard glare wilted her tart tone. She said, “The south wing. Around the corner, last room on the left.” Why was she telling him where to find her if he had not, in fact, already been to her room?

He pulled another face as he considered her reply. “Lady Weston’s idea, no doubt.”

He looked at the soldier once more, then slipped it into his coat pocket. “Probably left behind by one of the boys years ago. That room hasn’t been used in ages.”

He eyed her again, then asked tentatively, “Or had you a particular reason for thinking someone had been in your room—besides the soldier?”

“Something woke me. I thought I heard someone. And I smelled . . . shaving soap, I believe. Or bay rum.”

His eyes looked in her direction but were focused on internal thought. Then he straightened. “I promise you, Miss Smallwood, I did not come to your room last night. Most likely no one did. But please do let me know if anything like this happens again. As to what you heard . . . perhaps you did overhear me raising my voice. If so, I apologize.”

She nodded in acceptance, but he was hiding something—she was sure of it. “I . . . do hope you were not arguing about my father and me being here.”

He hesitated. “It was a disagreement about . . . family matters. Nothing you need be concerned about.”

Emma said, “I regret we arrived at a bad time. We did write to let your father know when we were coming.”

He lifted a hand in a vague gesture. “My father is not keen on details. It is why he leaves much of the estate management to Davies and me.”

Emma twisted her hands. “Then . . . you don’t mind our being here?”

Mr. Weston studied her, then looked away. “That has yet to be seen.”





Since the [ship]wreck at St. Minver . . . two men who ventured too far into the sea to secure a bale of bacon, were overwhelmed by the waves and unfortunately drowned.

—the West Briton, 1818